


skin. bones. raggedy clothes.

by ０４ ᴋᴇᴇʟʏ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ (SILKCUT)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Joker (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Even if neither truly understands, Fucked Up Family Connections, Gaslighting, Gen, Gotham City is Terrible, Harleen and Jim trying to make sense of the two people they care about the most, Mind Games, Original Characters - Freeform, POV Second Person, Perpetuating a cycle, Sexual Abuse, Slurs, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22772977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/%EF%BC%90%EF%BC%94%20%E1%B4%8B%E1%B4%87%E1%B4%87%CA%9F%CA%8F%20Q%E1%B4%9C%E1%B4%87%E1%B4%87%C9%B4
Summary: Spliced across past and present events with the uncertainty of the future looming like a recurring nightmare, in which a brilliant woman fell around the orbit of a lunatic and subsequently recreated herself, as a committed yet jaded law enforcer developed a paternal kinship with a boy from wealth and privilege who grew up to become a broken city's self-appointed savior.Narrative told using the second-person POV restricted between two characters per each chapter. Contains a few detailed scenes of violence and abuse, as well as hateful slurs. The dialogue and circumstances of the plot do not reflect the personal views of the writer. Reader discretion is advised.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck & Bruce Wayne, Arthur Fleck & Jim Gordon, Arthur Fleck & Joker (DCU), Arthur Fleck/Harleen Quinzel, Harleen Quinzel/Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	skin. bones. raggedy clothes.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetSongBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSongBird/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, **#ᴀɴɪᴍᴀ**
> 
> You are the warm, healing light  
> to the entropy of my darker inclination;  
> Truly in you I found a most faithful companion.

⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂

He tied you up in bindings that are leather and chain; it’s all kinky and shit, yet he barely laid a hand on you, not even to encourage cooperation. More violent men had done it before, each punch and kick a paltry attempt to get you to rat on your ex.

_‘Where is he? Where’s that creepy fucking clown you used to shack up with?’ ‘Tell me something, sweetheart. Did he blow his load over the crack of your ass whenever he took you, hmm?’ ‘Bet he made it hurt, precious.’ ‘Goddamn clown made you beg like the good–for–nothing-slut that you are, right?’ ‘Come on then, fellas, let’s drown this little queer. Hold her down!’_

Don’t you just hate it when flashbacks can get triggered by the smallest thing? Shaking off the memory, you then stifled a yawn and tried to scratch a portion of skin in your little finger, but Bats surely knew his way around bondage so that you can’t even relieve your itch in these damn things. You could be blue and gray around your extremities by now. Already everything was going numb save for your mouth.

And tongue. And teeth.

So you licked your lips with some bit of sensual intent coated in a subtext of protest, all while staring at him.

You smiled a few times, like an eager schoolgirl vying for attention; your pearly whites were stained with something a lot like blood, but it’s probably just the candy you’ve been sucking on earlier tonight.

Meanwhile, Bats remained the aloof, celibate teacher who might be closeted without even realizing it. He barely glanced your way as he drove through the stank streets of the city.

You kept rocking back and forth in your seat, never one to stay still, regardless the threat of death. You’d hum, groan and laugh your way to the chopping block if you can. And you will. _Ha-ha! Hee-hee! Ho!_

There’s no urgent need to get out of this mess just yet. If anything, it’s rather sweet, to be able to spend time with one of your oldest friends. How can you pass it up?

It's Bats. Boo-boo Batsy who dressed like a dom who never made it. And under that scowling cowl is still Bruised Bruce—Gotham’s poster-child for what happens when old money and sustained trauma had enabled an unbalanced individual to thrive.

“Where are you taking me, baby?” You spoke about twenty minutes in, because the brooding silence of your captor was just so dull, more painful than anal rape (Huh, wasn’t that during the last time you saw him?). Your smeared lipstick reached down the bottom of your chin, and it mixed with the white of your make-up and dark trails of mascara smudges.

“Is it Disneyland? ‘cos I’m not allowed in them parks no more, ya hear? Banned from candy stores now too, Batty, can you believe? I just wanted to ride the pretty horses and take every jawbreaker I can get. What’s so wrong with that, huh?”

You leaned against him next, placing your head on the firm curve of his shoulder. The angle was killing your already swollen muscles, but this closeness between you two was too nice to give up now. How long has it been since your last man? Or at least the last man you actually wanted to fuck instead of being forced into it.

“I know you’ve missed me…” you tried to peck his cheek, but the angle was off so instead you slowly descend to his lap—but not before he gripped you by the scruff of your neck like some puppy and pushed you back into the headrest of your seat.

“Meanie!” you spat at him and then pulled up your knees to your chin. The bindings around your ankles still gave you enough freedom of movement to try and swing your boots at him. That required you to spin on your ass, once again proving just how flexible you were—the could-have-been circus acrobat.

Bats anticipated the attack, of course, and grabbed your ankles to twist the bones and give one of them a half-sprain. It hurt, alright, with a vicious crack. Howling, you grinded at your bottom lip until you tasted copper. All the while, he kept his eyes on the road. He released you just in time as your legs went limp beneath you again, but now with the added pressure of an injury.

“Fuck you!” You screeched as fresh tears stung your eyes, “The bastard should have shoved those pearls in Martha's cunt before he shot her in the tits! That’s what she deserved, you dipshit!” You hurled more spit, and it hit the side of his face.

“That’s what you all fucking deserved!”

⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂

In hindsight, you should have had a better grip of your emotions. There was too much at stake here in this labyrinth, and if you already lose yourself to the anger and fear, then you won’t find your way back.

Life is a series of trials, the old chief used to say, and some of them need to break you apart before you can even be whole. An easily applicable blanket statement to excuse horrific events, you supposed, but at least as far as platitudes go it promises a rebirth of some kind—of turning what once made you curl into a ball of puke and tears into a strength.

You wanted to identify with that, right at this moment more than ever, as you cradled Barbara's unconscious body in your mind. Your baby girl—so stubborn and brave—who's faced her share of trials and was taken under the wing of someone she considered was more a hero that her cop of a father—you can see glimpses of her vibrant face here in this dark chamber.

The ropes on your wrists and ankles were thick and sturdy, as expected from what’s mainly for industrial use. Their fibers almost cut through the skin, infecting yours with burns that itched and bled.

All you can do was sift through pale memories of how you knew Barbara best even though a restless, nagging part of you can acknowledge that you don't really know anything beyond the surface—only the reflections she’s allowed to display.

“Everything alright down there…” you winced at the clarity of his voice echoing in the hole where you’ve been kept, “…commissioner?”

You gritted your teeth as your fists began clenching behind your back in spite of your decision to keep it under wraps, but this son of a bitch was a disease, and he infected the minds and behaviors of anyone who was unfortunate enough to come in contact with him.

There used to be a time when you believed you were beyond its clutches; after all, you can consider yourself a decent man. You’ve lived your life by a code and served the laws that governed and protected this city. This was your home, in spite of all the storms and ailments which wrecked its foundations. Gotham has continued to withstand the worst to this day, and so have the citizens. That was the basis of your faith, what you held onto for a long time anyway.

But after what this bastard did to Barbara…

“I hope you kill me, clown,” You curtailed the vehemence in your tone as you vowed: “Because the most fatal mistake you can do right now is to let me go. If I do live—I’m going to end your reign of terror once and for all.”

His unnatural half-sobbing laughter spilled out yet again. The sound carried across the stones, reverberating like madness undefined. It seemed to even shrink a few inches from your conviction.

“Ohhhh, but you will live, James Gordon,” he declared in that gratingly reedy voice that’s just as raspy, “But you’re not going to make it out as intact as you think, see. I _looooove_ a healthy mind, so if yours is an apple then I’ll be the worm.”

A terse pause followed. You used that brief time to pull yourself to your feet. Eyes narrowing, you craned your neck to try and see him through the halo of light from the well’s mouth.

“Watch me wriggle my way in, Jimmy,” the clown spoke in that singsong way, like a fuck-you to the guts, “I hope you’re not ticklish!”

There was another bellowing laugh before a mist of green enveloped the well. You started coughing as your knees buckled and you fell again.

⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂

These fuckers can’t even break you. And they knew it. Your body might be something to cut and slice, and fuck for these pigs, but your mind was far too big so that none of their underperforming appendages could even hope to fill. Every unforgiving thrust only made you cackle regardless of the pain. Whatever tears that came were merely involuntary; just skid marks in the open road of your gloating face.

"That all you got, fucktard?" You goaded the fiend between your legs, doing his best to show you he's a real man, and not some fumbling, basement-dwelling troll. 

You dug your nails into the harness they've tied you up in and kept chanting, "My poodle skewers a bitch better than you! How about you crawl back to your cousin in whatever dirt-poor shack you used to diddle her in? This is such bullshit!"

One of them hit you squarely across the face, knocking out a molar from the back. This only sent you laughing more madly as you flapped your legs as if trying to swim away. No doubt you looked absolutely deranged and scary—stockings torn from the thighs, left boob showing, eyes half-shut and swelling, and your ripped shirt soaked in blood and sweat—but, hey all the best comedies usually are. 

"I can't believe this!" You announced in the most incredulous of tones, "After everything I've put up with, life can't even get me a more experienced class of rapists?"

"I'm gonna shoot this goddamn dyke in her fucking face already!" One of them pointed a loaded gun. "Her pussy ain't worth this trouble!"

"You're right," another quipped as he clutched you by the hair, his large digits like talons on the scalp, "But maybe her tight little ass has some use."

You half-choked on your mirth while two of them slammed you on a nearby table. The crooked angle would definitely leave more bruises; already your stomach was cramping under the pressure of their fat bellies as they each took turns yet again. 

The rape was all so pedestrian. Unoriginal. Crude, easy and lacking any surprising flair. Your stupid ex was right about the criminals in Gotham these days; nobody wants to improve on their craft of torture and menace anymore.

Thinking about him almost made you sad, and the memory of that heartbreak distracted you enough that you didn't keep up whose turn it was now. These little boys and their filthy peckers have started to blur for you, like scenes from infomercials. 

Did this place have any clock? How long have you been here? God, can you go now?

You turned your head to get a look at your assailants just in time as Bats whooshed in and grabbed two of them in one swoop. Oh, wow. You haven't seen him in a while, not since you threatened to reveal to everyone who he was under that hood. Roughly three years ago, give or take. Now look at him; Justice Incarnate in leotard and leather, whipping serious ass. If you weren’t so broken at the moment, you’d have cheered.

The commotion behind you was ignored in favor of inspecting the extent of damage on your person. Your muscles strained like a motherfucker as you tried to stretch the soreness away, right before undoing the ropes by using a nearby knife. Yeah, you're going to need a lot of ice and warm compress too, stitches (of course) and a whole bottle of whiskey.

And then—maybe some pancakes, man.

Limping, you started to walk towards one of the thugs currently lying on his back, staring up wildly at the nightmare who just put him there. The other chicken shits didn’t even get to shoot their guns before the Dark Knight was on their asses, pulverizing what little traces of courage and grit they have left. This dance always ended the same way but never with the same degree of pain and humiliation.

“I know, right?” you nudged the thug with your foot as you brushed a hand through the tangled strands of your messed up ponytails, “He’s even more terrifying in person. Don’t tell me this is your first time getting roughed up by the Batman, hoss?”

He didn’t even hear you, or maybe he’s far too busy pissing himself.

“Look, I need to know where my girlfriend is,” Still all conversational, you swept down and used what was left of the ropes to wrap them around his neck, throttling him. Panic and fear gripped him in an instant, but because of the angle and pressure he could only flail and dumbly choke in your grasp.

Once you made your point, you loosened the hold and were just about to repeat the question when he gasped out, “We didn’t—couldn’t take her. She’s far too—strong….please, no more—”

“I figured she would have gotten away,” You cradled the sides of his head. “Did she know though, that you came after me next?”

“I—I don’t know! We were hoping she did so she’d find you here and we could trap her—”

“Why the fuck were you asking me about my ex, by the way?” You interrupted before he could start pleading for his life again.

The man whimpered. From what you can ascertain, Bats did a number on his lungs, hence the forced way he had to keep himself talking, “He owed us something. We wanted that to be paid.”

Vague much? But you don’t really care about this; there was a reason you cut ties with the Joker, and that was Ivy—Pamela. She’s the true love of your life, not that piece of shit you used to call ‘puddin’.

A looming presence stood behind you. A gruff voice. It said, “Harley. You need to come with me.”

And then he was lifting you off your feet with an almost rough pull at your left elbow. You shrugged him off and said, “I ain’t going nowhere with you until I see my girl, Batsy.”

“I know where she is,” he answered with that icy nonchalance you’d recognize anywhere, “The Joker took her.”

“Gee,” you narrowed your eyes as you stared him down, or at least tried your best to, considering one of them was already swollen shut. “Just when you thought you got rid of your past, it comes biting you in the ass.”

An unfortunate term of phrase as the terrible reminder of your assault made your knees almost buckle. But then Bats gripped you in place, this time by putting an arm over your back to help you remain upright. What a sweetheart.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” you quipped, flashing him a very painful smile, “Say, do you think you could let me shower and clean up first before the next mission?” You wound your arms over those broad shoulders as your smile became almost affectionate. You always had a knack for turning on the charm even under duress. Pamela liked that about you.

(So did Arthur— _oh shit_. No. The only reason you’re thinking of him was because you’re about to beat the shit out of him and save your girlfriend).

“There’s time for that,” Bats looked at you as if he can’t see through your shtick. This willful ignorance had gotten him in trouble a few times. You know there’s a small inkling of hope that he could save you. Form what though? This was your choice. Your life was a circus and you’re the star.

Besides, what did Thomas Wayne’s heir really know about lost causes when he’s still out here, giving his life in service of a city that would sooner feed him to the dogs if only they knew where to find him and who he is?

“I’ll take you to the cave and have Alfred look after you for a bit.”

The gesture of gentility on his part, or at least the attempt of it, made you almost fawn. See, not every man is rotten and broken on the hinges. Some still—like Bats—could pretend they can respect the women they could hardly look in the eye—let alone consider as people, and not mere extensions for a long-running gag whose punchline would never come.

Brooding Hero glanced behind you to look at the surviving, barely conscious thug on the ground. “In the meantime, I’ll get more information from this one. I am curious about what he meant about what they are owed.”

“Whatever,” you let go and span around to stretch your arms up.

Without warning, the knife from earlier reappeared from your grasp, and you stabbed the thug right on his thigh. The instant _crunch_ of the impact was delicious to your ears, and so was the hopeless look in the man’s eyes as they met yours. The spot you picked was far away enough from his dick but not detrimentally close that it would have hit an artery. Howling, fuckface glared at you through the tears and snot running down his chin.

“Oh yeah,” You made kiss-y faces at him while you pushed the blade deeper into the muscle, before slightly pulling in and out in shallow, repetitive motions

Murmuring, you leaned close, “You like this, baby? You like it rough?”

You don’t give him time to answer as you pulled out the blade completely—only to burrow it back again through the gaping wound; this time you almost hit a bone. The fucker choked on his saliva and bile as his head tilted back, eyes rolling.

“What’s the matter, faggot? Can’t handle a little pain?” You crooned. Pulled out. Stabbed him again.

Sickening joy filled your lungs as you started coughing it out in short bursts of laughter. You pulled, stabbed, pulled, stabbed— _ohhhh_ , the relief of catharsis was like the best hot shower you’ve ever taken. It’s probably just the heavy perspiration sticking to your clothes due to the heat of the moment, but the more you dug into his marrow with the blade, the less your own insides hurt, especially the passage between your buttocks where these savages have imprinted you.

“Harley,” Bats—ever the buzz-kill—interjected at last. Quite the delayed reaction on this one. He had wrapped his gloved hand around your wrist once you raised your hand to prepare another strike. He used his other hand to fend off the knife, but you sure as hell ain’t letting it go.

Still holding your wrist, he knelt down next so he could reach you there on the floor where you had somewhat collapsed moments ago.

“Harleen,” he muttered before bringing you to rest inside his arms instead, as if he meant to cocoon you in the conviction of such unwanted comfort. “That’s enough.”

⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂

“That’s enough,” he said in a milder tone than you expected, especially after you besmirched the name of his mother just now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A pause. “Would you like me to check for any sprain?”

The anger from before has quickly come and gone by now, so you shook your head and said, “Nothing a quick crack to the bone later on can’t fix. And that’s not really the problem. Maybe I need some mood stabilizers at this point. I get so grouchy.”

“There are not enough pills in the world to help with what you got.”

You looked back at him in mild shock before you burst out laughing. After slapping him on the arm, you remarked, “Oh yeah? This coming from the same guy who went through four therapists in his lifetime?”

He sighed as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You could have been the fifth if you only you didn’t come undone the way you had.”

The tone was very gentle though, undercutting the tension of his entire body as he spoke next, “But it’s not your fault. It’s him. All along, he had us fooled. We thought we were curing him. And then he pushed you to the ledge. But I wasn’t there. I should have been.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” you looked off to the side. The discomfort was enough to make your wriggle on your seat, so you closed your eyes and exposed it all to him, your almost-something, ex-maybe friend. “That you could have prevented something from breaking on impact if only you reached in time for it? Dum-dum! You would have only cut yourself with the shards…”

You sensed his silence meant he didn’t want to admit it. Bats just didn’t know how to give up, even if hope itself had to be a noose he wore around his neck every day.

“I was the one who leaped though, Bruce. I did that. Me—“ You glared at him, asserting the claim with gritted teeth. “So don’t fucking take that away…” the constraints that bound your wrists didn’t seem to hurt anymore as you added, “…all I’ve ever had are my choices.”

He said nothing because he couldn’t possibly disagree. The soft rumbling of the machinery you’re sitting on didn’t use to make a sound before, but the silence that permeated the rest of this uneasy ride almost amplified it. You glanced at the window to your side, and through the tinted glass you can look at the world in the vantage point only realists and cynics share. Are you no longer a dreamer? Makes perfect sense, since you haven’t felt entirely human for the longest time.

⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂✵⁂

As soon as you came to, you realized that your face was no longer pressed against the wet soil and grime of the well which housed you as its prisoner. Keeping track of the hours is a muddled practice, if not somehow unproductive, because you guessed that the Joker had more or less deprived you of a sense of time and coherence. There might be a number of reasons he decided to take you, or there could be none at all—not one fucking explanation, because it’s the Joker after all.

You coughed into your palm and touched the wall with another. So you’re no longer bound around the wrists, big deal. If anything, you’re more disturbed of the fact you can now use your hands again than the alternative. Does this mean you’re being let go? Fat chance. And even if you can just walk off to whatever tunnel you’re now trekking, there’s no way you can just let sleeping dogs lie. Not with the Joker. Never again.

The tiny dot of light was your only guide. Darkness ate through the tangibility of everything else, save for the gun whose metal-cold shape you could feel against your calf. You’ve been carrying extra heat for a long time. Clearly nobody bothered to confiscate it, or they could have left it hollow instead, missing its bullets. Didn’t matter; you’re finding your way out and confronting that bastard soon.

Your boots stepped into puddles next and the ticking of water as each drop fell onto the ground only reminded you how parched you’ve become. It hurt to swallow, far more debilitating than trying to think and come up with a plan. The light before you expanded with every measly step you took. Freedom was still a few more hundred yards away, but at the back of your mind you also knew it came with a price somebody else was paying for.

What would Barbara think of you if she saw you now? Heaven knows you tried to be there when it counted for something, but your job—this city and its miasma of injustice, revenge and broken families—it will always swirl around men like you even after retirement; men who tried to do the right thing while they watched the very things they hold dear vanish. On occasion they might find regain perspective at the bottom of a bottle or while staring at the barrel of death itself, but other times there’s just this never-ending tunnel to walk into and hardly reach the end of.

You were closer to yours now though, closer yet to the answers whose questions you’ve been too jaded to ask. The years and their permanent scarring have served you well, but still you wonder. You wonder about young James Gordon, the hopeful recruit, the officer who dabbled in school-boy heroics and made it his mission to tackle the stark realities of corruption in higher places.

He’d probably be disgusted if he learned what he would be reduced to in two decades—only so he could become _you_.

“I know you’re out there,” you stepped into the light and felt your eyes well up with moist as your sight tried to adjust. Raising your hand as a shield, you went on, “I have no time with your parlor tricks and played-out punchlines. Not after you harmed Barbara, Arthur. Not when you crippled my baby in more ways than one.”

The scene before you crystallized as your vision improved. You could see that you’re in a place made to look like an empty classroom you could find in any college campus. The dozen rows of leather seats were empty, save for the Joker who had been sitting on one whilst using another to rest his legs on top of. He leaned his weight on the leather as his arms were crossed behind his head. You tried to recall the last time you saw him without the make-up and costume, and the memory of that battered, malnourished man easily surfaced into view in your mind’s eye.

No. None of that. Any trickle of sympathy must be drained out lest you lose the anger that propelled you upright.

You’ve been standing behind a white board that’s scribbled heavily in sharpie markers. Some were actual words, verses weaved by a lunatic, while others still were crude illustrations of personal nightmares. But whose? You turned your head to look at them, sporting a sour expression the entire time due to discomfort and dread.

“You’ve always been a special man, Jimmy,” the Joker spoke in a tone that was still menacing regardless of the gentility in which he articulated his words, “But there’s always someone more special, and he’s close to my heart that it’s almost like I have the organ living and breathing and _raging_ separately from the rest of my body. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He smacked his lips, “Uh…Barbara was your heart too, right? I’m so, _so,_ terribly sorry that I couldn’t resist—

He shot out his arm and clenched his fist. ”—and I had to squeeze the love out of her just so I could prove a point to her darling ol’ dad.”

“And what point would that be, you cocksucker?”

“No need for that language,” he looked almost disappointed even under the thick layer of white paint. “Not when we’re around children.”

And that’s when you noticed that some of the chairs scattered across the rows were facing away. Five of them began to turn now at the Joker’s remote-controlled command, revealing kids around the age of seven to twelve all bound and gagged in each seat. They sobbed into their confinements as they stared right at you.

“Let them go,” you measured your words as your breaths shortened, “I mean it, Arthur. This—whatever this is, whatever you want—we don’t need to involve innocent lives again. Especially not them—!”

You hastily bent to unlatch the revolver on the stirrup around your calf. Afterwards you cocked and pointed the gun at the other man, determined not to waver this time.

“Goddammit, Arthur! We both know you could be better than this!”

“You see, Jimmy,” the Joker smiled, “That’s always been your problem. The root cause of all this mess. This is why you will never be rid of me. It’s why I thrive in your minds, why I keep coming back from the dead.”

A lump got stuck in your throat as you looked at the children with a helplessness you’ve only felt days before as you held Barbara in your arms.

It was also this disgusting piece of shit who shattered her spine and left her naked body hanging outside the precinct. It took a while to cut her down because she’d been wired to a device that could trigger an explosive—only to find out later on that it was fake right after one of the officers cut the wrong wire. Confetti burst out across five miles from where she was placed, and these shredded pieces were photos of Barbara shot in different angles while she lay broken and bleeding on the carpet of her apartment. The Joker turned her torture and humiliation into a spectacle for everyone to partake in.

They couldn’t sweep all of it, even days after the major cleanup. You know there were still torn pieces of her tragedy somewhere in Gotham right now; like a ticket stub or a piece of gum stuck on vending machines and ceiling fans, being stepped on by people as they hurried along the pavement, or maybe even compiled by perverts who no doubt distributed the images among themselves. Your daughter—just another woman assaulted to add in to their collection.

Searing hot rage filled your veins. You should just kill him. He’s nothing but a menace that exacerbated the infection in the scabs of Gotham. But even with the gun in your possession, you felt weak and susceptible.

You demanded then with a hoarse voice strained with the weight of all your misgivings: “You’re right. You’re absolutely fucking right. I made this mess when I refused to see you for what you really are. Now let them go!”

“Finally!” the Joker stood up and spread his arms. And that’s when you took a shot. Or didn’t. No bullets. Of course! You tossed the gun at him but he stepped to the side just in time to avoid the blow. He playfully dangled the remote control before pressing it again so that the chairs would spin slowly as the cries from the children deepened, wounding your very soul.

Laughter threatened to spill out of him again, but he held it in long enough to say, “I hope you share this revelation to Harls and Bats later on. It would do all of us good once they stopped thinking there has ever been anything in me worth saving.”

* * *

**DR. QUINZEL:** Testing, one, two...this is a recording of my first session with Patient 40056, Arthur Fleck. 

_(pen clicks)_ He was arrested for the murder of Murray Franklin as well as for other charges of manslaughter and assault which will not be disclosed for the time being. Mr. Fleck was also considered as the figurehead who incited the Gotham Clown Riots of 1999. 

_(rustling papers)_ He was the adopted son of Penny Fleck, a woman who had on multiple occasions systematically abused Arthur while he was growing up. Mr. Fleck has hence incurred a debilitating mental condition from this trauma, with symptoms varying from compulsive laughter, substantial decrease in appetite and psychosis that includes narcissistic fantasies and violent tendencies. 

_(clears throat)_ His ongoing treatment is medicinal in nature. Prescription of his meds will be shown in the final report accompanying this tape. In addition to that, Arkham Hospital tasked me to monitor his progress through psychotherapy which— _(door hinges open)_ starts today.

It’s four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, February 18, 2001. _(chains clicking in place)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** I’m sitting across the patient now.

**FLECK:** _(a small chuckle)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** Good morning, Mr. Fleck. It’s good to finally meet you. My name is—

**FLECK:** What took you so long?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Pardon?

**FLECK:** Y’all waited two years before sending me to a shrink. Let me guess. More budget cuts? Higher-ups still fighting over whether or not they leave me here to rot in the loony bin or if should get the chair instead?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Your guess would be as good as mine.

**FLECK:** Oh, you know. You know way more than you think or want me to think. Don’t cha?

**DR. QUINZEL:** I’m sorry, but I don’t follow. Can I begin asking you—

**FLECK:** What sort of name is Quinzel? Sounds made-up. 

**DR. QUINZEL:** It’s not. Anyway, Mr. Fleck, I would advise you to listen and only speak after I ask you questions. This session is very important in helping me gauge the most efficient ways Arkham could assist in your treatment beyond the prescribed medication you are taking.

**FLECK:** I don’t mind the drugs. They help—they help a lot. You wouldn’t believe— _(a chuckle)_ the thoughts that go tinkering around my brain space. Occupying the bad spots, right along the fringes. It’s, uh, it’s a little— _(a louder chuckle)_ distracting, but, you know, I, uh, try. I’ve been trying to get better at this. And I do need guidance.

**DR. QUINZEL:** I understand comple—

**FLECK:** Is that why—sorry, don’t mean to interrupt again. 

**DR. QUINZEL:** That’s okay.

**FLECK:** Is this why you’re here for me, doctor? To guide me?

**DR. QUINZEL:** I certainly hope so. The goal of therapy is rehabilitation. We cannot cure diseases of the mind; they’re much more complex than that. Prevention of recurring impulses coupled with the right attitude for a lifelong steady commitment to a program will slowly but surely put you in the right track. 

**FLECK:** You really think so, doc?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Of course. But I need you to cooperate with me. Is that okay, Mr. Fleck?

**FLECK:** I don’t know. Maybe _(a chuckle)_ I guess, yeah.

**DR. QUINZEL:** First off, can you tell me more about your confrontations with the late Mr. Thomas Wayne?

**FLECK:** Sorry?

**DR. QUINZEL:** There was security footage at the opera and in the premises of Wayne Manor which have both placed you—

**FLECK:** What do you mean...the ‘late’ Thomas Wayne?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Oh. I see... _(pause)_ Well, I supposed you weren’t informed. I should have—I should have taken into account that this is all new to you. Um, after all you’d been carefully supervised during your seclusion in the last two years. No contact with the outside world including media outlets and...

**FLECK:** They let me use the gramophone, so long as I don’t touch it behind the gilded cage—now what do you mean by—? When did he—I mean, how? Is it right after or...?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Yes, well. He was...during the Clown Riots. He and his wife were gunned down by one of the men who had put on the mask and...this isn’t—Mr. Fleck, it’s probably best if we switch topics since it’s...well, you’re clearly getting upset—

**FLECK:** Huh? _(a chuckle)_ Why would I? _(starts laughing between words)_ Why in—the hell would I—get upset about that?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Mr. Fleck, please! 

**FLECK:** Sorry! I’m so sorry! I just— _(keeps laughing)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** Are you going to be okay? Do you need a minute?

**FLECK:** Right, right! Okay...I’m— _(coughs multiple times)_ Sorry! I was just so taken aback! I had no idea. Oh...oh my god! That’s so sad! _(starts laughing again)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** Mr. Fleck, perhaps it’s best if we can resume this session some other time. I apologize for the stress I’m putting you through. I’m—quite new to this, but I promise that next time—

**FLECK:** Doc?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Yes?

**FLECK:** Tell me about the boy.

**DR. QUINZEL:** The boy? Do you mean Bruce Wayne?

**FLECK:** Oooh! Yes, the boy! The rightful son and heir! How is he? What happened after he found out?

**DR. QUINZEL:** Actually...

**FLECK:** Yesssss?

**DR. QUINZEL:** You know what, Mr. Fleck, I’m not comfortable discussing this with you anymore. It’s ill-advised.

**FLECK:** Oh come on, Quinz! Humor me! I’d like to know what happened to my little brother after receiving such devastating news!

**DR. QUINZEL:** Mr. Fleck, please control yourself—

**FLECK:** I am in control! What are you even shrinking away for, you dummy? Look at me! I’m just a guy sitting handcuffed across a girl, asking her to tell me how that little bitch can sleep at night now knowing DADDY is never coming home again—! _(more laughter)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** Mr. Fleck, I will call security if you—

**FLECK:** WHAT! HAPPENED! _(slams fists on table repeatedly)_ TELL! ME! TELL ME OR I WILL CHOKE YOU!

**DR. QUINZEL:** Oh god—! Please—! 

_(papers rustling, chairs being moved; recorder lands on somewhere on the floor)_

**FLECK:** TELL ME ABOUT BRUCEY BRUCE MY BABY BRO! Who puts him to bed without that whore of a mother Thomas decided to marry and not MY MAMA! HE SHOULD HAVE MARRIED MY MAMA! 

**DR. QUINZEL:** Stop, PLEASE! Security!

**FLECK:** I SHOULD HAVE BEEN A WAYNE!

_(doors open) (more laughter) (screaming)_

**DR. QUINZEL:** Jesus Christ _(rustling papers)_ what an asshole! Fuck, I screwed up—Shit, it’s still on—

_(end of recording)_

* * *


End file.
